


Bad Ideas

by CoarseSugar



Series: Ways to Home [1]
Category: Strike Back
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10643094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoarseSugar/pseuds/CoarseSugar
Summary: Two retired soldiers living under the same roof. Scott pleads for a chance to add some spice into his day, but Michael gives him something better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First Strike Back fic. First proper English fic, for that matter. Set a couple years after the ending of the last episode. Backstory in the works, but wanted to jump the gun and post this little episode of their retired lives first. Unbeta'd.

 

  

Michael sat by one end of the sofa with a book in his lap and a nicely brewed cup of tea on the side table. He was wearing a pair of light gray oversized sweatpants that frayed a little at the seams around his ankle. Crossing his feet, he sank even deeper into the cushions.

 

A faint smell of tomato sauce lingered in the air from the pasta they’d had for dinner, but neither men seemed bothered. It wasn’t like they made regular use of scented candles, let’s be honest, or even Febreze, the latter of which any two men sharing a roof definitely should.

 

Scott turned off the tap and leaned back against the kitchen counter, shaking the last drops of water off his hands. He tilted his head to look at the other man nestled under the warm glow of the overhead lights. One of the cotton slippers was dangling dangerously off his toes as he stretched his legs. He certainly seemed to be enjoying his evening, Scott noted, grabbing a beer from the fridge door.

 

Michael barely made any acknowledgement when Scott plopped himself down onto the opposite end of the sofa, save for a small grunt. Taking a long swig of his beer, Scott gurgled loudly and let out a noise of appreciation, all the while still observing the other man out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, after a few seconds, Michael closed his book with a small thud. He was distracted alright, not a wonder given Scott’s obnoxious manners. He twisted his shoulders to face the culprit.

 

Scott gulped down another mouthful of beer, while Michael regarded him with a look of disapproval.

 

“Heh,” Scott chuckled, evidently smug about himself.

 

“What?” Michael asked, sounding slightly irritable, as he removed the book from his lap.

 

“Nothing,” Scott drawled.

 

“Hmm,” Michael was pretty sure that it wasn’t ‘nothing’, but he also wasn’t in a hurry. He leaned back and reached for his mug.

 

They each nursed their own drinks in silence.

 

Naturally, Scott finished his beer first. “So,” he started.

 

Michael was still holding his mug.

 

Scott gave him a moment to set it back down. He’d learned a long time ago not to disturb the English while they enjoyed their cuppa. So he waited.

 

“Yeah?” The ceramics were now out of Michael’s hands.

 

“So,” Scott repeated, folding his left leg under the right, hanging over the edge of the sofa. He grabbed a cushion and reclined into the backrest, “the other day, at the bar, I was talking to this girl.”

 

Michael snorted.

 

“Not like that,” Scott quickly added. “It’s not what you are thinking, man.”

 

“Alright,” he shrugged.

 

“But I was talking to her, and she said something about a fight club.”

 

Michael quirked an eyebrow.

 

“Actually I wasn’t sure who said it. She was there with a whole bunch of her friends, and everyone was talking over each other. But the point is, they brought up this place that’s supposed to be one of the best kept secrets in the ring of underground fight clubs.”

 

“And?”

 

Scott took a deep breath, and turned to face Michael. “And I was wondering if I’d head down there to check it out next weekend,” Scott deliberately spoke fast, slurring his words together.

 

Michael gawked at him.

 

“It’s not here. Not even that close to here,” Scott chipped in quickly to explain. “Actually it’s quite a few towns south.”

 

“I’m assuming you are not planning on going down there just to watch the fights.” Michael emphasized the verb “to watch” as he replied.

 

“Huh,” Scott paused to scan across the Englishman’s face for clues, “no, you’re right. I might as well watch some boxing or MMA on TV, in that case.”

 

“And you are seriously asking me what I think of this, Damien, hmm?”

 

Scott was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question, though he did allow himself to feel a bit proud at recognizing it, even if it wasn’t the best timing. He’d been trained well, living with a Brit.

 

“Look, Mike,” Scott held up both hands in defense, “it’ll just be this once. I promise.”

 

Michael rolled his eyes.

 

“C’mon, dude.” Scott was nearly pleading, putting on his best face of innocence mixed with indignant anticipation.

 

For a second, Michael thought he must’ve been quite far gone, because he was starting to see some absurd humor in all of this, but the truth was he hadn’t even had one drink yet. Maybe something was off with his tea, he hypothesized, his mind wandering off on a tangent.

 

Scott was still gazing at him with his sky blue puppy eyes.

 

Jesus Christ, the man was going on forty, Michael scrunched up his nose in exasperation, how the hell could he still manage to pull off a mildly convincing puppy face?! Okay, maybe not just _mildly_ either.

 

He sighed, “if you knew this wasn’t a good idea, why did you bother to ask?”

 

At that, Scott visibly wilted, imaginary ears and waggy tails all drooping down.

 

Michael tried not to look too pleased with the American’s pout, he felt like he was teaching discipline to a five-year-old. “What’s more, why are you even asking me, Damien? It’s not like you need my permission before you go do something stupid.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Scott rolled his eyes, “it’s just that, it’ll be better if you nodded and went along with it, you know?”

 

“Now who are you kidding?” Michael couldn’t help it. They’d both gotten through their fair share of crazy shit years earlier, so to think that Scott was seriously asking for his blessing for this was just mind-boggling.

 

“Fine! I’ll take it as a no you don’t think I should go.” Clearly irritated, Scott fired back.

 

“No, I don’t think you should,” Michael affirmed.

 

The disappointment in Scott’s eyes though, it was almost accusatory; like he’d just robbed a child of the candy jar. Something tugged at Michael inside.

 

He took a deep breath in, and slowly let it out, knowing he’d probably come to regret this very soon, “but if you really want to, then go.”

 

Scott jerked his neck around in surprise, the glint in his eyes more than a reflection of the overhead lights. “Huh, really?”

 

“Just this once,” Michael emphasized, before he could go on.

 

Rubbing the back of his head, Scott cracked a gleeful grin, “Hell yeah! I could kiss you right now, Mikey.”

 

Michael couldn’t hold back the laughter. “No, thank you,” he declined politely, and reached for the bookmarked page. “I sincerely hope that wasn’t the worst decision I’ve made since entering retirement.”

 

“It’s a done deal, dude. You can’t go back on your word.” Scott interjected quickly.

 

“Wasn’t planning to. Relax, mate.” Michael glanced up from the already open book, giving Scott a quick smile of reassurance.

 

“Oh, and one more thing.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Finn’s getting in that same afternoon. Says he’s spending the long weekend with us. You’re gonna have to pick him up.”

 

“Jesus Scott!”

 

“Heh heh heh,” he laughed, “remember, no going back, you promised.”

 

Oh he was indeed regretting this very, very soon alright, Michael thought, as he courteously raised his middle finger.

 

\-----

 

The underground fight club was actually a bit nicer than Scott had expected. The place looked like an old industrial sort of facility, largely made of exposed concrete walls and flooring, with some disused mechanics and piping still left in odd corners. The “ring” was located on the lowest level of the basement, a square-ish area poorly outlined with tape on the ground. The most enthusiastic viewers gathered around there. Several metal staircases from the central pit led up to various layers of mezzanine and balcony overhangs, providing the perfect stands for additional spectators to watch the fight.

 

The stench of sweat filled the air, overriding the damp and moldy undertone that pervaded the entire building. The hot-headed crowd shouted profanities non-stop. Scott stood by the back wall behind the ring, wearing only his training shorts. The coarse finish of concrete rubbed against the skin of his upper arm, its sting heightening his senses.

 

From where he stood, Scott could also smell the faint trace of blood hanging in the air, probably from the numerous injuries sustained by the previous fighters, but it hardly mattered to him. Rather, it excited him. This was what had prompted him to come here in the first place, not the blood, he wasn’t bloodthirsty like that, but the raw and uninhibited and almost reckless nature of these fights. He craved this, because it made him feel alive back in his soldiering days. Sparring with Michael, as good as it was, inevitably got old. Plus, he wouldn’t want to hurt Michael, nor Michael him, so it was different, fundamentally.

 

The burly bearded man playing judge gave Scott a push and yelled “you’re up” with a gesture of his hand. Scott swung himself upright, shaking out his arms and legs with a few hops left and right. He’d been waiting for too long.

 

Three rounds later, Scott was breathing hard with blood seeping out from the corners of his mouth. He spit it out with flick of his head. He’d gotten quite a few bruises and cuts, but the other guy, some South American or Mexican muscle, Scott couldn’t tell, had it worse. His bleeding nose was covered by a towel quickly stained red.

 

Scott felt around the left side of his own face, pressing down around the cheekbone to determine the size of the bruising. That one was going to look nasty for quite a few days, and he might have to resort to band aids. His knuckles also hurt, from punching the other guy repeatedly in the guts. The worst was the large scrape on his back.

 

During the last bout, Scott’s opponent had somehow managed to form a collaboration with the judge, who simply refused to get out of the way, and used the one moment when Scott was distracted to trip him onto the ground. The home crowd erupted to cheer on their man, a regular, rather than some new guy they’d never seen before. And in a moment of blind rage, years of intensive military training kicked in. Scott had used his position to wrestle the other man onto the ground, the concrete floor biting into his flesh, as he grappled with the man before eventually pinning him down from behind in an iron-clad chokehold. It earned him both a cowardly tap on his arm and a fresh pink scrape on his back.

 

Scott winced as water trickled down from the top of his head onto his back. Reminded that his 60 second break was nearly up by the frenzied crowd, he took one last drink from the plastic bottle and threw it aside. His hair was still wet, so was his face. Scott wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing up as he did, before getting ready to step back into the taped ring.

 

But something stood out to him. A familiar face. Someone who wasn’t agitated like everyone else around him. He had a simple faded t-shirt on, fitting snugly around the solid build of his shoulders and chest. He held on to the railings, hands clasped around the metal bar, a deep frown etched onto his forehead. The pale florescent tubes casted thick shadows of waving hands and arms, the raven silhouettes danced across the man’s chiseled features, lingering by his jawline. Scott was a little surprised at the amount of details he could discern, despite the distance and clamor.

 

It was almost exactly like the first time they’d met.

 

He’d come, Scott thought, Michael had come, after all.

 

Something about Michael’s presence struck Scott hard, as he suddenly realized just how far they’d come, from that first encounter in Kuala Lumpur, and how much this one man had changed everything in his life. Michael had pulled him right out of that dingy brothel, cleaned him up, and gifted him with a new start.

 

Scott felt a strange tightness in his chest, like whatever was inside expanded and ballooned, threatening to burst out of his ribcage. He almost gasped on the inhale. His eyes stung, but he wasn’t quite sure whether it was because of the sweat, or something else much more overwhelming.

 

The bell for the next bout rang, fueling the crowd even wilder. Scott had to refocus his attention back on the fight. His eyes had met Michael’s for only a brief second, but he knew that the Englishman had his eyes locked on him, quietly observant, just like that first night many years ago. Scott could feel his gaze piercing through the shadows. A renewed fire burned from deep within him, despite the strain in his muscles.

 

The next time Scott looked up he’d already won, but Michael was nowhere to be seen. He quickly collected his cash prize and dashed towards the back exit.

 

“There you are.” A rather leisurely British accent greeted him as he burst through the heavy metal door. Michael sauntered out of the corner.

 

“Hey,” Scott replied, trying to conceal his own haste, “where’d you gone?”

 

Michael didn’t seem to notice it. He let out a small huff, before turning around and calling to someone behind him, “Oi, come on then.”

 

“Hi Damien,” a greeting drifted out, as Finn emerged with a bashful smile. He pointed to the bruise on the left side of his father’s face, “are you alright?”

 

“What the hell…” Scott ignored the question as his tone took an upturn in warning, temper still volatile. The one thing he hated most was to see Finn involved in anything that smelled like trouble, and that for sure included a five-mile radius of any illegal fight club. Scott glared at Michael as he opened his mouth to continue.

 

Michael cut him off promptly, a step ahead of Scott’s unspoken words, “I told him to wait in the car.” Glancing between the two, he added to Finn, “and I told you your dad wouldn’t be pleased if he found you in there.”

 

“I’m nineteen already! Jeez,” Finn complained, “stop being so overprotective, Damien. I swear I was only in there for like a minute, tops, before he threw me out.”

 

Michael could tell that Scott didn’t buy that, as he rocked on his heels, fuming. “Look,” he tried to make peace, raising his arms in mock surrender, “my bad. Finn was only trying to check out what was going on. But I should’ve made sure he stayed in the car.”

 

Scott shot him another angry look, though he remained silent.

 

“And I’m sure he wouldn’t go anywhere near another one of these again. Right, Finn?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Finn nodded offhandedly, “wasn’t that cool anyways.”

 

“We’d better out of the way,” suggested Michael, suppressing a small smile at Finn’s remark, “talk back in the car.”

 

He gave Finn a pat on the shoulder to release him from Scott’s fading tantrum. The youngster crossed the empty parking lot in brisk strides without another word, while Michael deliberately kept his pace down to a stroll as he held Scott back.

 

“You alright?” Michael pointed to the darkening bruise on Scott’s cheek, but Scott waved him off. “Relax, Damien,” still playing the nice guy, Michael elbowed the moody American lightly, careful to avoid any potential injuries he wasn’t aware of.

 

Scott shook his head, “how long was he in there, actually?”

 

“Actually,” Michael repeated, “he was really only in there for a couple of minutes near the end. Kept an eye on all the entrances and exits, so I got him out as quickly as I could manage.”

 

Scott was mute for another moment, then he finally sighed and decided to let it go. “Too bad you missed the best part of the action,” he joked, a little dryly.

 

Michael was glad that Scott had finally lightened up, “oh don’t overrate yourself, mate. Bet you twenty I could beat you if we really had a go at it.”

 

“Really, Mike?”

 

“Wanna bet?”

 

“Nah,” smirked Scott, “wouldn’t want to hurt both your ego and your wallet. Double whammy, dude. That’s just too painful.”

 

“Ha! You wish,” Michael laughed, his grin partially hidden from Scott’s line of sight.

 

Dusk had fallen quietly in the span of a few short minutes.

 

Scott kept his pace slow alongside Michael, enjoying the feeling of the gentle evening breeze caressing his damp and sweaty skin. As the two made their way across the lot, Scott remembered what he’d wanted to say in the first place when he got out, before he got interrupted by this whole outburst. “So,” he started, “how long were you in there for?”

 

“Me?” Michael sounded a bit confused, not fully grasping the point, “a little more than half of the fight, maybe? Why?”

 

Scott hummed, without answering the question, “but you came.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, fading into the warm and humid air.

 

They’d finally reached the car where Finn was already waiting by the front hood. Michael unlocked the doors so he could climb in, giving him a small nod to let him know that all was well and under control.

 

“Hold on,” Michael motioned to Scott, as he stopped by the trunk. He disappeared under the lid and rummaged for a bit, before reappearing with a clean towel, a light zipper hoodie, a roll of disinfectant wipes, and a fresh bottle of water, “there.”

 

Scott collected each item as Michael handed them off, a growing pile in his arms. Just a moment ago, he’d had only his wrinkled t-shirt and some training shorts on.

 

“Yeah, I came,” Michael finally responded as he closed the trunk with a thud, “wasn’t sure you were going to make it home on your own.”

 

There it was, the same tightness from earlier flaring up across his chest again. The street-side lights shrouded everything in a dim orange hue. Scott blinked, clutching the towel tightly.

 

“You alright?” There was worry in Michael’s voice.

 

Scott’s breathing was jagged, and his back teeth tightly clenched. He cleared his throat a couple of times before looking up, “yeah, ’m good.”

 

Michael frowned for a moment, quickly examining Scott from head to toe. Seeing no apparent bleeding nor otherwise severe injuries, he patted the other man on the shoulder, “come on, then.”

 

\-----

 

By the time they finally got back, it was already past ten o’clock. The return trip had been dull, with Finn dozing off in the backseat and Scott keeping quiet during the entire ride. Michael kept a close eye on him, even as he pressed down on the gas pedal.

 

Night zipped past the car, leaving a blurred world on the windows. Evenly spaced lamp posts along on the highway casted multiple shadows of everyone and everything. Scott traced them with his eyes for a while, until the fatigue and pain caught up to him. He stole a sidelong look at the driver’s seat, before settling against the headrest.

 

Scott didn’t feel like chatting, because he needed time to think, to figure out the strange sensation not yet subsided from his chest. But his brain was churning very slowly, cogs and wheels, heavy machinery.

 

Their car jostled to a full stop behind a vinyl-paned house.

 

“Finn?” Michael glanced behind.

 

The young American appeared to be quiet lost, having just woken from a nap, rubbing his eyes and stifling back another yawn.

 

Michael had expected as much, giving Finn a minute to collect himself as he turned towards Scott instead. He’d already opened his mouth expecting to wake the elder American as well, when Scott groaned, “I could seriously do with a long hot shower right now,” while reaching his arms out gingerly.

 

“But first let’s get you checked out as quickly as we can, yeah?” Michael was glad to see Scott back to his usual self, “then you can go play in the tub with your rubber duckies.”

 

“Fuck you!” Scott gave him the middle finger, cracking a small smile.

 

The two of them climbed out with Finn following closely behind, door thumps and automatic locks chiming into a little tune.

 

“I’d be careful if I were you,” warned Michael, as he headed towards the back porch, “since I’m going to be the one patching you up in a minute.”

 

“Will you look at that, nurse Stonebridge,” Scott called out, leaning on the wooden railing. “But it’ll be hard to fit you into one of those pretty uniforms.”

 

Michael fumbled for the right keys under the lone bulb overhead, grunting in response.

 

And someone was clearly in the mood to push it, as he solicited an alternate opinion, smirking, “could you imagine, Finn?”

 

The mental image must have made quite the impact, for the young man looked immediately alert but equally queasy, “I’d really rather not, Damien.”

 

“Hey kid! Whose side are you on?”

 

The door swung open, bright lights and homely warmth flooding the porch.

 

“Off you go, both of you,” Michael hung back, ushering in the bickering father and son.

 

Scott kicked off his sneakers on the doormat, heading straight for the living room, while Michael checked the locks and chains. Old habits die hard, and all.

 

“Scott, do me a favor and stay the hell away from the sofa,” Michael called out without glancing behind, “and Finn, grab the pizza from the freezer and stick it in the oven first, would you?”

 

Changing direction midway and pacing idly to the dining table instead, Scott jabbed, “look at you, Mikey, dishing out orders like a proper commanding officer.”

 

Finn had obeyed his and disappeared behind the fridge.

 

“Scott, shut up and take your shirt off,” Michael sounded exasperated.

 

“Yes sir!” Scott did a lazy two-fingered salute, before adding, “fuck me, I love it when you’re needy.”

 

Michael refused to dignify that with an answer, heading upstairs instead, “I’m going to get the first-aid kit.”

 

“Aw c’mon, Mikey, don’t be shy!” Scott shouted after him, earning a loud noise of complaint from his son, who was stuck behind the kitchen counter with knives and spoons, making God knows what.

 

Scott turned his attention back to the cuts and bruises littered across his body. He’d cleaned off most of them in the car with the Clorox wipes that Michael had gave him, except for the scrape on his back. Scott scrunched up his face as the shirt peeled off; the thin fabric felt like it had been glued to his skin with his own sweat.

 

“Motherfucker,” he cursed under his breath. These shallow wounds really hurt, Scott thought, even more than the deeper ones, or maybe he’d simply spent too long away from the field, that he’d grown alien to the feeling altogether.

 

“Looks painful,” Michael’s reappeared from the bottom of the stairs holding a white plastic box marked with a red cross.

 

“It _is_ painful.”

 

“But the, uh, pattern, reminds me of some modern art exhibition thing I saw the other day on the Internet,” Michael tried to hold back his laughter as he offered.

 

“Michael,” Scott crumpled up his stained shirt and threw it across the dining table, aimed at the Englishman, “don’t pull that whole whatever expressionism shit on me again.”

 

“Abstract expressionism, Scott,” Michael caught the shirt and draped it over the chair he’d pulled over, the memory of a bizarre sculpture coming to mind, “and here I thought you’d become less philistine.”

 

“No need for sophistication when I’m living with you, dude,” Scott winked from where he straddled the chair, arms folded across the back.

 

Michael was already soaking a large folded gauze and a pair of tweezers with alcohol. “Shame, we really ought to find you a cultured woman.”

 

Scott narrowed his eyes at the declaration, unsure of what to say. Michael’s seemed intensely focused on the task at hand, brows lightly furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. Scott felt somehow jittery as he waited, which didn’t make a lot of sense because Michael had treated him on many occasions throughout their days at Twenty, and he had almost always been in much worse shape. If he trusted the man enough to dig out bullets from his leg and cauterize the holes in his stomach, then he definitely shouldn’t have second thoughts about having him clean up a simple scrape.

 

“It’s going to sting a bit.” A warning interrupted Scott’s musing. He nodded, noticing the slight tingle on his skin every time Michael breathed while he leaned in. Michael traced the outer boundaries of the wound first, easing Scott into the biting pain. His fingers moved steadily and methodically, as he made sure to cover every inch of broken skin with the wet gauze.

 

“Fuck,” Scott couldn’t suppress the small hiss when the alcohol seeped into his flesh, despite Michael’s best efforts.

 

“Growing soft, are we?” Michael quipped, picking out a tiny piece of fallen fiber stuck to Scott’s back with the tweezer.

 

“Speak for yourself, Mikey,” Scott winced, “’cause I’m not the one getting jumped by some little kid in a stupid horror movie.”

 

“Really?” Finn poked his head out of the kitchen, still holding half an avocado and a spoon, too curious to miss Michael’s response.

 

“It’s called reflexes Damien,” Michael capped the bottle of liquid disinfectant, “remember we were trained for those? Back in the day when we were out on the field?”

 

Finn was clearly disappointed that Michael didn’t elaborate further.

 

“Excuses, excuses,” Scott chimed, fully expecting the other man to get even through unnecessary pressure. His muscles tensed up in anticipation.

 

But the pain didn’t come. Instead, Michael’s left hand moved to massage to the tender spot right under his neck, heat radiating from his palm. In a few seconds, Scott inevitably relaxed into the touch. Only then did Michael begin to apply the antibiotic cream. His movements were even lighter than before, the tip of his index finger barely ghosting over Scott’s skin.

 

Scott waited for him to finish, the process taking longer than he had anticipated. The sting from the alcohol subsided gradually, leaving behind a numbing tingle.

 

“All done,” Michael patted the last corner of the tape down, after covering a fresh piece of gauze over the treated area and sealing it with tape all over.

 

“Thanks, bud,” Scott managed to get out, his mouth a little dry.

 

“Now, careful when you shower. And make it quick,” Michael reminded, “wouldn’t want that to get wet.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Scott stood up and flexed his shoulders tentatively.

 

“Maybe we should stick some plastic wrap over that.”

 

It was only a half-joke, but Scott seemed disgusted at the idea. He stormed up the stairs, “no fucking way dude! I’ll be out in a minute.”

 

Finn finally emerged from the kitchen, with a bowl of freshly made guacamole and a large bag of tortilla chips. “Pizza’s almost ready,” he called after Scott, “hurry up Damien!”

 

Michael packed up the first-aid kit, placing the bottles, tubes, and packets back where they belonged. He hadn’t done this in a while, treating injuries, that is, and it brought back memories from their final escapade out of Europe. To think that he almost deliberately chose not to show up at their rendezvous some two or three months later, Michael chided his younger self. Look at them now, a pair of amicable co-inhabitants of a nice, cozy, suburban house. None of this, he searched for the right words, this peaceful domesticity, would have been possible if he hadn’t shown up, or, if he hadn’t turned around on his bike and followed Scott to Vegas, for that matter.

 

“Michael?” Finn’s voice brought Michael back to the present.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Whose idea was it?”

 

“What?”

 

Michael had already turned the corner around the hall, holding the dirty shirt Scott left behind on the chair, but he stopped at Finn’s question.

 

“For Damien to go there tonight.”

 

“Who do you think?” Michael snorted.

 

“Fair enough,” Finn had guessed as much, “but why did you let him? I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I didn’t think you’d approve.”

 

“Huh,” Michael didn’t give Finn an answer right away. He ambled down the hall to the mechanical room where they’d installed the washer and dropped Scott’s shirt into the laundry basket next to it, pondering the question as he returned to the dining room.

 

“No, you’re right. Of course I didn’t approve.”

 

“But you let him go anyways,” observed Finn.

 

Michael nodded, “yeah.”

 

“Why though? You knew he was gonna get himself all busted up, right?”

 

There was a pause when Michael stopped to think. He understood Finn’s concern, and he was, in a way, glad that the young man had grown to be protective of his father, all the more reason he couldn’t just let this pass.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse you or anything,” Finn added hastily, taking Michael’s silence the wrong way.

 

“No, it’s alright,” Michael waved his hand. “I was just thinking how I can best explain.”

 

Finn dusted his hands free of the crumbs of tortilla chips.

 

“I’m not sure if you’ll get what I mean, but,” Michael frowned, “I agreed to let him go because he needed it.”

 

Finn looked pensive.

 

“And obviously I trusted him enough not to get too beaten up.”

 

“You saying shit about me behind my back?” Scott swung his head back and forth in an attempt to dry his hair as he approached the other two already seated around the table.

 

“Jesus Damien,” Michael wiped the water off his arms, “let’s see the back.”

 

“It’s fine, really,” Scott nagged impatiently, but still turned around, lifting the shirt halfway and allowing Michael to feel around the tape and gauze. “I smell pizza!” He exclaimed.

 

“Yeah I’m starving too.”

 

Finn trudged over to the oven, throwing a backwards glance at the two older men.

 

\-----

 

Michael extended his arms toward the ceiling, shaking out the tension in his muscles. It had been a long day, and he’d spent quite a few hours behind the wheels, but it was probably nothing compared to what Scott was going through. Michael glanced at the American making his way up the stairs with wooden legs.

 

“Can we talk, Mike?”

 

The request surprised him, he’d thought Scott would’ve wanted to hit the sack as soon as possible, but he nodded anyhow.

 

“Not here, in yours,” Scott raised his chin towards Michael’s room just around the corner from the landing. Michael had insisted that Scott take the master bedroom when they moved in, claiming the second bedroom closer to the staircase for himself.

 

Michael let him in first, and closed the door behind them. Scott headed straight to the bed and flopped himself down on the covers, messing the blankets and bedsheets into a little pool of creases.

 

“And make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” The Englishman rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

 

“Michael,” Scott rubbed his temples, staring down at the floor.

 

The change in the address piqued Michael’s interest, as he waited for more.

 

“What you said to Finn,” Scott folded his hands together, “you really think that?”

 

“Sorry?” Michael asked, not entirely sure what Scott was referring to.

 

“About today. The fight,” Scott clarified.

 

“Why I had agreed to let you go?” Michael crossed his arms in front of his chest, “so you heard.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“I don’t know, Damien. You tell me.”

 

Scott exhaled slowly, “I would’ve said you were right.”

 

Michael kept his eyes fixed on the other man, though the dark bruise on his cheek was more than a little distracting.

 

“But,” Scott knotted his brows together.

 

Michael urged him gently, “but?”

 

“But when I saw you during the middle of the fight,” Scott shook his head, “then when I left and saw Finn, and you, outside… I don’t know.”

 

Michael’s expression softened ever so slightly.

 

Scott picked at a corner of the blanket absent-mindedly, pulling loose a thin thread after quite a few tries.

 

Michael found the sight of Scott battling some stubborn fiber filament on his bedcover strangely amusing, but he managed to keep it in.

 

“I don’t know,” Scott muttered again, “I thought I needed it, like you said, the adrenaline, the recklessness, all of it.”

 

“Right,” Michael agreed. He’d thought of exactly this when he tried to explain to Finn earlier.

 

“But that wasn’t it. Don’t know why,” Scott blinked a few times, trying to clear his head, “been wondering what was different, what went wrong, when we drove back.”

 

“Hardly anything wrong with that,” Michael supplied.

 

“Maybe,” Scott sat up straight, “maybe, I thought, what I really needed, was to realize that I didn’t need it anymore.”

 

It was quite the tongue-twister, but Michael understood instantly. He looked into Scott’s eyes, clearing up from the last traces of doubt. “Good,” Michael nodded, the commendation in his voice indicating that he was glad of Scott’s paradigm shift. “And thanks for telling me, mate.”

 

Scott nodded back in acknowledgement, standing up to make his way out, “well, good night, then. I guess.”

 

“Try to sleep on your stomach, eh?” Michael teased. “Good night.”

 

Scott cocked his head towards his partner, stopping just before his hand reached the brass knob. The room was dimly-lit, just a floor lamp glowing from the corner. Michael stood by the doorframe, his posture relaxed. The corners of his lips ticked up just a little. His pupils dilated under those lazy, half-closed lids.

 

Scott couldn’t tear his eyes away.

 

For a moment, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, taking in every detail of the scene. It nearly felt like an invitation, he thought, had it been anyone else, anyone other than Michael in front of him. And for once, despite all his worldly experience, Scott didn’t know, wasn’t sure, of what to do. He hesitated.

 

Michael raised his brows in inquiry, after too long had passed. His expression was one of genuine care and concern, displayed openly as he studied his partner.

 

The tightness that had persisted on and off in Scott’s chest for the entire evening seemed to be at its worst, threatening to constrain his breathing, and he finally realized what it meant. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins as it dawned on him, as he gave in. Scott took half a step forward, closing the gap between them, his lips sealed over Michael’s.

 

Neither of them had brushed their teeth after dinner, and the kiss tasted like pepperoni and avocado and corn chips. Yet the thundering in his ears made Scott feel like a high school boy all over again. He pressed down harder, craving for contact, one hand cradling Michael’s neck and the other resting against the small of his back. How stupid had he been for just figuring this out after so many years.

 

Scott let his lips linger for another second, before pulling back reluctantly.

 

“Michael?”

 

“What,” the other man looked slightly dazed as he inhaled, “was that for, Damien?”

 

The gravity in Michael’s tone immediately sent Scott into a quiet panic. Voices chased and replaced each other inside his skull, one saying he’d been too rash to act before thinking it through, before another debated what Michael would do next. Scott let go, holding his hands by his thighs instead, fingers curled into fists.

 

Michael narrowed his eyes at Scott’s silence, pressing further, “I’m assuming that wasn’t to bid a friend goodnight.”

 

“No, Michael,” Scott retorted sharply through gritted teeth.

 

The Englishman tipped his chin up in defiance.

 

“Fuck me,” Scott let out a frustrated sigh. “Tell me you don’t want any of this.”

 

Michael didn’t move.

 

“…and I’ll back off,” he finished.

 

Michael swallowed. This wasn’t like Scott, he thought distractedly.

 

“Tell me, Michael, and you can forget about this,” Scott bit his lips, “I’ll walk away. We can pretend it never happened. If that’s what you want.”

 

There was an unfamiliar rasp in Scott’s voice. But Michael couldn’t get past the resignation to notice, because it usually didn’t come easily with Scott, not if he’d made up his mind.

 

“Oh what, so you’re just going to turn around and leave now? On my word? Since when have you abided by my word, hmm?” He fired, though still keeping his voice low. The soundproofing of these wooden houses all across the American landscape really wasn’t the best, and Michael didn’t want Finn to overhear.

 

“What more do you want, Michael?” Scott shot back.

 

“How about not leaving me to bear the burden of your mistake, for a start?”

 

“Don’t you call it that!” Scott hissed, advancing towards Michael.

 

“What? You don’t think that’s what it is, Scott, a mistake?” Michael leaned in too, backing his inquisition. Their nose tips were almost touching.

 

Scott forced himself to take several deep breaths, “like I said, Michael, if you don’t want any of this, then just tell me so.”

 

Scott’s glare burned brightly even in the mellow lighting, his blue eyes radiating something akin to anger, but not quite. There was more, lurking just under the surface, like a tempest just beyond the horizon. He was avoiding the question, Michael noticed with a small shake of his head.

 

“Copy that,” the swift remark startled Michael. Scott lowered his gaze, eyes lingering around the collar of Michael’s faded shirt.

 

Michael opened his mouth to say something, but Scott beat him to it.

 

“Won’t happen again, I promise.” Scott’s voice almost cracked under the low rasp. He cleared his throat as he took a step back. A rush of air quickly filled the spot where he stood.

 

This wasn’t just resignation anymore. Scott was fleeing altogether.

 

“Go to bed, Michael,” Scott reached for the door, “wouldn’t be a problem anymore. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“Scott,” Michael instinctively grabbed him above the wrist, “Damien.” He could feel the muscles growing taut under his palm, “I didn’t…”

 

“It’s fine, Michael,” Scott turned back just enough to face him.

 

“Will you let me finish!” Michael exclaimed, glaring irritably.

 

Scott tried to pull his arm free but to no avail.

 

“Fuck,” Michael cursed under his breath. “Shit Damien, what do you want?”

 

Scott stopped struggling and stared at him dubiously.

 

“Do you want to walk away?” Michael asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

 

The question was blunt, direct, and very Michael Stonebridge. Scott faltered, but Michael was determined not to let him get away.

 

After a while, Scott unclenched his jaws. “Really,” he whispered hoarsely, “I’d rather not.”

 

Michael pursed his lips.

 

“But it doesn’t matter,” Scott jerked his arm again.

 

Michael loosened his grip just a little, but not enough for Scott to break free. He took his time surveying the man in front of him, the bruised cheek, the tired red-rimmed eyes, the lines on his forehead, the dark stubbles around his chin and all along his jawline.

 

Unexpectedly, the mental image of a much younger Scott burst into his head, swiveling around in a black leather chair in the sunlit crib like a hyperactive child, eyes twinkling with mischief as he flirted with every passing female at HQ. He hadn’t been aware of Michael’s look of displeasure behind several glass panels when he got the Grant’s orders to babysit.

 

They’d gone through quite a lot together since then, rescuing innocents, chasing intel, shooting terrorists, death on their heels every step along the way. Neither had backed down from dozens of armed hostiles, or ticking timers strapped to various models of explosives. But here they were, mere inches apart, standing face to face in an old house with creaking floorboards, and Scott was trying to run away.

 

“Michael?” He shifted.

 

Michael wasn’t about to let him off like that. His gaze bore into Scott’s blue irises shining in the dim lamplight. There was uncertainty, muted disappointment, and something far more delicate. Michael felt a dull ache spread from his chest, as if grinding butter knife against flesh.

 

Before his brains fully underwrote the operation, his body was already on the move. Michael tugged Scott towards him and kissed him back, full on the lips. He could sense the other man’s muscles tighten in surprise as he held him in his arms. Michael sighed, but never broke contact. He kept on kissing Scott through his initial reaction, until the faint tremors faded against his own skin and Scott started fighting back to regain control.

 

Michael grabbed Scott’s shoulders to steady them both, but the American obviously had other ideas. He lodged his right leg in between Michael’s thighs and pushed his back onto the wall with a soft thud. Michael bit Scott’s lower lip in revenge. Scott grumbled in response. Pressing down harder, Scott pinned Michael to the wall, their bodies flush against each other, and slid a hand under the side of Michael’s t-shirt. The heat of his palm made Michael shiver as he inhaled, and Scott seemed encouraged. Meanwhile, their tongues were still engaged in fierce battle, but Michael was starting to get dizzy with the lack of oxygen. He made a little noise halfway between a grunt and a moan as the tip of Scott’s tongue brushed against the roof of his mouth. He finally summoned enough effort to push Scott off.

 

As they panted next to each other, gulping down the much-needed fresh air, matching grins appeared on their faces.

 

“Jesus,” whispered Michael, “is it always like this?”

 

“With me, or with dudes in general?” Scott winked.

 

“You prick!”

 

Scott’s hummed against Michael’s chest, “believe me, it’s beyond anything I could’ve imagined.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Michael’s thumb brushed against Scott’s stubbles.

 

“Rightfully so, Mikey,” Scott stole another quick peck on his lips.

 

“You see, Damien,” Michael pressed their foreheads together, fingers resting upon Scott’s swollen bruise, “this you would’ve missed, we both would’ve missed, had I let you get away just now.”

 

Scott buried his face in the crook of Michael’s neck and nuzzled against the smooth skin.

 

Michael stroked his back, careful to avoid the scrape.

 

“Mikey,” Scott’s voice was muffled.

 

“Hmm?”

 

Scott shook his head but didn’t say anything. He left a trail of kisses, from just above Michael’s shirt collar, all the way up past his Adam’s apple, and back to his lips.

 

Michael held his breath as Scott did his work, and moaned into the kiss.

 

“Mikey,” Scott muttered again, as he rolled his hips forward.

 

There was no mistake of the pressure against his lower belly, but Michael was swift to put a stop to things, “no, Damien.”

 

Mild alarm stirred in Scott’s eyes.

 

“I’m not fucking you when your son’s sleeping two doors down the hall.”

 

Scott bit the side of Michael’s neck, not even attempting to hold back his laughter of relief.

 

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

 

“Only if you get back to your room before dawn.”

 

“Jeez, Mikey. It’s not like we’re in the middle of some scandalous affair.”

 

“Uh-uh. My bed, my terms. Take it or leave it, Damien.”

 

“Fine!”

 

 

 

 

 

\- Fin -

 


End file.
